I’ve written about suicide. I’ve written about the time I tried to commit suicide. I’ve written about my thoughts on suicide. But what I haven’t written about is how I feel about my suicide attempt, 13 years on.
13 years. It’s a long time. And I’m not going to lie most of that time has been pretty rough. I’ve been through rediagnosis after rediagnosis. I’ve battled drug and alcohol addiction. Self-harm addiction. I’ve been through more medications then I can count and been hospitalised 8 times. I’ve moved countries and then moved back again. I got married to a wonderful man (so there’s been some good). So It’s been a busy 13 years. But what of my suicide attempt. Well.
I would be lying if I told you that I didn’t sometimes wish that I had succeeded. How easy it would have been. I easily could have still ended it instead of telling my Mum what I had done. On my worst days I think of this. On my worst days I curse what I did, asking for help. On my worst days I wish my life away. I forget all of the good that I have gotten and I wish that I had succeeded. On my worst days I don’t want these 13 years. On my worst days I think that if I had died everyone would be over it by now, they would be done grieving, the hurt would be gone. On my worst days I still wish that I had died. On my worst days I still think about killing myself.
But on my best days. On my best days I am proud of all that I have come through. I am proud of all that I have overcome. I am proud that I am no longer an addict and alcoholic. I am proud that I no longer self-harm even when I so badly want to. I am proud that I seek help and take my medications diligently. I am proud that even though I still have frequent thoughts of suicide I don’t take action on them, I talk to my doctor or therapist or I go to the hospital. Because believe it or not, maybe life’s worth living and as frequently as I feel suicidal and as awful as I feel on a daily basis, maybe I want to live it.